Page 5 of Holly Jolly
"You mean these stress wrinkles? Come on, you are the one that looks like you haven't aged a day since I left."
A warmth surged through my heart because our banter was what I loved most about our relationship. It started out as a friendship first, and then blossomed into more. Ethan and I connected on multiple levels, but when the accident happened, he was crushed. Everyone else stayed away from him because of his anger, but I embraced it. He just needed someone to be there for him and everyone else turned away except for me.
My childhood wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. Both of my real parents were dead too, so bouncing from foster home to foster home was the equivalent of my childhood until I finally found my adoptive parents. They provided the stability I needed as a child to be able to close to people.
Before Ethan, I had no friends. It made sense to stay to myself because I never knew when I was going to be going to another home and starting all over again. Getting close to people just to have them ripped away sucks.
"Listen, we have a lot to talk about... but mostly I want to say that I've missed my best friend. When you left, you took a part of me. I hope we can stay in touch after you go back home," I said.
He reached out tentatively and took hold of my hand—just like we used to do back in high school—and squeezed it gently.
5
Ethan
December 23rd
We walked down the street, admiring the dazzling lights hanging from each shop archway. As we entered, the bell dinged, alerting the barista of our arrival. They had an eight-foot Christmas tree in the corner, with tinsel strung around it and fake presents underneath. The lights were red, green, and blue and set to the music playing over the speaker. This was something I had seen others do with their house lights, and wanted to do it with my own home one day. One thing about this town, they were big on the holidays. Most stores go all out, and I guess that was because most of them were local owners, not big box companies. Almost every purchase you made goes toward helping someone here, and not in the pocket of some rich CEO who made a million dollars a year.
The barista welcomed us as we walked to the counter with a smile, took our order, and then we sat down to chat next to the tree. I was interested in hearing more about Holly’s writing career, as I’d always loved writing, but heard it was so hard to make a career out of it. There were more struggling writers than not. Many didn’t realize how hard of a task writing a book was, and how grueling the process could be, but I did. Around nine-years-old, I tried to write a horror novel, stemming from my love of horror movies, and I ended up getting around 10,000 words in and couldn’t get any further. Hats off to those that could pop out two to three books a year. I didn’t know how they do it. The writer’s block and imposter syndrome alone were what got me.
“So, what genre do you write in?”
She fiddled with her fingers a little. “Contemporary romance. Something always gets me about a great happily ever after. Picture Hallmark movies. That’s my vibe.”
Holly must love Christmas and it showed with the twinkle in her eye, or that might just be her passion for writing. Authors could be very vocal about their craft, and if you let them, they would talk about it for hours. I didn’t mind, of course. As long as it’s Holly. Just in the last fifteen-minutes, I had picked up on this thing she did when she talked about herself. It must be a habit, biting her lip. Almost like she was scared to talk about herself. Maybe someone had not been supportive in the past?
“I used to love Hallmark movies. Right now, I’m in a slump.”
“What’s going on? Everything okay?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to dump my crappy life on her, but I felt the need to be honest. “Just a rough time of year. My fiancée left me around this time last year, and put a damper on the holiday for me.”
She frowned, and patted my hand. “Don’t let her ruin Christmas. Out of sight, out of mind.”
Holly was one that never really let things bother her, since she’s had it much worse while bouncing around as a child to many different foster homes. When she got adopted, she thanked her lucky stars it was to parents that truly wanted her around and to see her succeed. It could be why she liked to help out with Charities and youth programs.
This was what brought us close together during senior year, because she was adopted finally, and my home was broken as I was missing my father and brother after their accident. She was the one that approached me and offered her condolences while sharing her own story.
“How are your parents doing? Still in town?”
“They passed a couple years ago. About six months apart. Mom passed, and then dad shortly after. His health declined fast, and losing his lifelong partner didn’t help the situation. You know, they always said that they wouldn’t be able to live without each other, and I guess they truly meant it.”
My heart sank in my chest, and the sadness showed in her eyes. They were great people, and always used to invite me over for family game night on Sundays when we were going out.
“A large hot mocha and caramel macchiato,” the barista yelled out, setting our cups on the ledge.
I took it upon myself to get up and grab them. Giving her just a moment to compose herself if need be. She must be having a rough time with how close they were, and I’m not sure what to say. Nothing seemed like the right words.
After a couple sips of my coffee, I inquired about her books and she did exactly what I wanted, and went on a rant about the plots and the happily ever afters. I might not have gotten mine yet, but I’m still holding out. There was a woman out there for me, and I just need to find her. Her next book was set to come out tomorrow on Christmas Eve.
“I’ll have to pick it up. I, normally don’t read romance but I will read yours.”
“If you hate it, just lie to me. Let’s just say my last release, I was dumb enough to check out the reviews, and it killed me. My agent finally pepped me up by reminding me that even the best sellers of my genre have low-ratings given to their books. I promised myself I wouldn’t look at reviews anymore.”
If her writing was as good as it was in high school, it’s great. She wrote a couple of short stories and they were published in magazines.
“So, where are you living now?” she asked, eyeing me over her cup to her mouth.
